Suddenly alone among the masses in front of Mysore Palace, I put Sharvan’s advice into practice, and saw that strangers’ often intimidating stares instantly gave way to deep smiles, and often led to such questions as “What is your good name?” and “Which is your place?” or alternatively, “Where is your house?” Eventually I got the hang of answering these questions without having to say “What?” too many times. Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel The Namesake helped me with the good name part, as I remembered the struggle over the names Nikhil and Gogol.
Indeed, the only people I decided it would be wisest not to smile at were the hawkers who swarmed the palace entrance, flying plastic helicopters and playing the Titanic theme unremittingly on their recorders, insisting, “You don’t want, but someone will like!”
Unfortunately, during the three-hour wait in the palace entrance, I broke down and bought some bangles. Their price started at R$300, and I got them for R$100. I felt pretty good about this deal, until they began to break on my wrist in quick succession, and I realized I probably should not have paid more than R$20. I took this as a lesson in bargaining.
Most of the inquiries about my good name and where I stayed came from Keralans. I met a group of Keralan nursing students on a break from their studies in Mysore (and later heard that most nurses in the region are from Kerala); a little Keralan girl dressed like a princess who kindly gave me some peanuts; and finally, a group of friends from northern Kerala who now work in the IT sector in Bangalore. They immediately asked me whom I was staying with; I hesitated, reticent to lie, but then responded, “a friend of a friend,” remembering Sharvan’s unwillingness to broach couchsurfing.com with his friends.
- Scenes from the ticket counter. The worst pushing began later, at the entrance to the palace.
My new acquaintances let me duck out of line to buy water, which may have saved me from ditching the visit to the palace altogether. They also got me a coveted Indian entrance fee (R$20, rather than R$200), and made me feel less alone in the mob that was pushing to get in the doors when the palace finally opened at 2 PM. In the chaos, I wondered if trampling would begin. Then I looked at who was shoved into me from all sides, and realized I should not worry about myself, but about the many 3- to 7-year-olds moaning on the floor around me. Babies wailed; bamboo batons swung; adults grabbed anyone they could get their hands on to pull themselves to the front; and finally, one of my new Keralan acquaintances, Sachin, pushed me through the entrance and I stumbled up the stairs into the palace. Phew. No trampling scene this time. I checked to see how badly my shirt had been ripped, and decided this was likely a relatively uneventful entrance scene for Mysore Palace at Dasara.
After a couple of hours in the palace and hundreds of photos outside of it, I went in search of a meal with Sachin et al. around 4 PM. Regrettably, the first apparently decent place we found was the rooftop restaurant at Hotel Roopa. The restaurant was overpriced and service was terrible, which seems to be the norm for many restaurants here. We ordered the buffet; most of the tin pots on the table were empty, and the food that remained was quite cold. As I tried to make myself eat some of this expensive but utterly unappetizing meal, I realized that Sharvan had been calling my phone incessantly for the past 15 minutes and I hadn’t heard. I called him and he was stressed out – a new couch surfer had arrived and he didn’t know what to do with her! I told him to bring her to the Hotel, and shortly thereafter, Kasia – a young Polish woman who had recently finished her studies in Liverpool – popped out of the elevator, sat down, and ordered a fish curry. It took an hour to come.
Kasia provided “joyful company,” as Sharvan later put it, and together with the Keralans we set out together to visit Mysore’s famous fruit and vegetable market, where I enjoyed seeing the colorful powders on sale for Dasara and the men lighting candles around their stalls as a prayer for improved business (or so I was told). From there we went to see the palace lit up, which was a spectacular sight. We alternated between taking photos and people watching, as our fellow visitors struck interesting poses all around us. Indeed, multiple times during the weekend I felt like I was taking part in one giant photo shoot.
Finally we moved on to Mysore’s Beer Garden, a nearby restaurant with pleasant balcony seating where the crowd suddenly became decidedly blonder. We ordered some Kingfishers, and soon Sharvan – ever the conscientious host – began calling again, and arrived with a friend to take me and Kasia home.
To be continued next week!
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